


Island Dreams

by bittenfeld



Category: Miami Vice, Miami Vice (TV)
Genre: M/M, Ritual Sex, voodooism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-02-26 12:11:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2651630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittenfeld/pseuds/bittenfeld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While vacationing in the Bahamas, Tubbs is taken prisoner on a voodoo island, and Crockett and Castillo must come to his rescue…  But what ransom must they pay for his release?</p><p>Final – Chapter 6:  Finally Sonny and the lieutenant are free to go and take Rico with them.</p><p>…When they finally stepped out of the rain-forest onto the beach, and saw the two boats bobbing gently at anchor, Sonny suddenly felt as if the whole thing had been no more than a bad dream.  But Rico’s trembling weight leaning on his arm was real, and the rigid tension of Castillo’s back and shoulders was more than obvious…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> co-author Mikki Cruz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While vacationing in the Bahamas, Tubbs is taken prisoner on a voodoo island, and Crockett and Castillo must come to his rescue… But what ransom must they pay for his release? 
> 
> …The man stepped closer, almost seeming to glide rather than walk. Cupping Rico’s chin in one hand, he lifted the prisoner’s head. Rico found himself looking into the darkest eyes he had ever seen – dark and full of depth. It was as if he were staring through miles of black space, trying to fathom the distance. He felt his mind start to drift into a dreamy haze. He wanted to look away from that compelling gaze, but found that he couldn't…

Travel brochures and other tourist information never mentioned Muerte Blanca.

To curious vacationers or eager real-estate agents, the explanation offered most frequently was “privacy”. The words “religious commune” were secondary; the terms “ritual drug use”, “religious prostitution” and “slavery” were rarely spoken. Occasionally someone would be seduced by the white sandy shores and lush vegetation under brilliant blue skies, and ignore the warnings. They were seldom heard from again.

* *

His vacation in the West Indies had been so sublime, so perfect, that when his boat’s engine began choking and sputtering, Rico Tubbs was only mildly concerned. And even that concern lessened when he noted the tide carrying him toward a small island.

“No sweat,” he muttered. “Should be people around, and if not, I’ve got a… radio, hell, I got a radio, I can call now.”

Static. He couldn’t send, couldn’t receive. He remembered – now that he wasn’t lulled by the waves lapping against his craft and the gentle rocking of the ocean’s rhythms – that the radio had been very touchy, very fickle, the last few times he had tried to use it. But at least he was coming in close to the island.

“No problem. No sweat.”

* *

He never saw them approach.

He would have sworn that the beach had been deserted. He glanced away for a moment to check the anchor line, and when he looked up, there they were: six huge black men, dressed in loose white shirts and pants; eyes glassy and staring like drugged-out smack freaks – or zombies – faces tattooed with intricate white designs; little golden bells dangling from pierced ears.

Rico swallowed, no longer aware of the water tugging around his ankles as he stood next to his disabled boat. For a moment, he did nothing but scan the unrelenting stares and unreadable dark faces. Then he grinned.

“Hi. Nice day, huh?”

From the men there was no motion, no sound. Several yards down the beach, seagulls wheeled above the rocks.

Rico’s grin faded. Okay, he told himself, no frivolity, just be pleasant. He assumed a serious but friendly expression, and tried again. “Listen, could you guys help…”

“ _Hah!_ ”

The harsh sound startled him. He swallowed, licked his lips, and tried once more. “I’ve got some engine trouble…”

“ ** _Hahh!_** ” The harsh utterance cried from every throat this time, and sunlight flashed on steel. The gulls circled overhead, emitting frightened squawks, and flew off.

Then it was quiet again, except for the sound of the waves. Rico felt his legs no longer strong and steady beneath him, as if the slight tug of the waves would send him tumbling into the surf. All he could do was stare at the thick curved knives held purposefully in black hands.

He died several times in his mind before one man took a short step forward and lifted his blade a little higher.

“Quiétate!” the voice was deep but flat. “Tendrás que venire con nosotros!”

Rico hesitated. He could feel his nerves twitching and his muscles trembling as they sought to obey his instincts and run. Instead he clenched his fists and did not move.

“Tendrás que venire con nosotros!” the man insisted.

“Umm, sorry…” Rico shrugged non-comprehension, “uh… no hablo Español…um… American… Americano.”

“You will come with us!” As the order was repeated in thickly-accented English, the bodies silently moved closer, forming a semi-circle in front of him. Behind him stretched only the empty blue of the Atlantic Ocean.

Compliantly he sloshed out of the water and began plodding through the sand. The voice continued. “You will remain silent. You will keep your head down and your eyes on the ground.”

His escorts formed a ring around him and walked him into the thick jungle growth. Within moments the lush vegetation had swallowed them from view of the beach.

The seagulls returned, spiraling and diving and settling on the boat.

* *

Rico had hoped that it would be cool among the greenery, with the broad-leaf trees filtering the sun’s rays, but instead it was close and humid. He kept his gaze downcast as he had been instructed, but from time to time he could see slithering movements out of the corners of his eyes, and hear rustling noises through the leaves. Whatever they meant, he didn’t want to know.

The man who had spoken to him strode in front. Two men flanked him on either side, and one brought up the rear. They moved with military precision and the grace of dancers and the agility of athletes – not like opium smokers.

Zombies or head-hunters… or cannibals, maybe, Rico supposed… but, man, what is this? – this isn’t the Congo River country or the deep Amazon jungle; this is right next door to the Bahamas for chrissake… Civilization.

They were climbing over tree roots now, but the pace did not stop. Rico’s sandals snagged and he tripped, one knee colliding with a sturdy root, and the other elbow skidding across another root or branch, and grunted a painful complaint.

The men stopped. One beside him pointed to the sandals and made a flinging motion. Rico understood. As deftly as he was able, he undid the straps and tossed the footwear aside. The ranks closed around him again, and they moved on.

He winced when he stepped barefooted on a sharp twig or a thorny plant, and grimaced in disgust when he felt something slimy under one unprotected sole. Until they had resumed their march, he hadn’t realized how tired he was. Now he felt as if he were a sodden mass of sweat and aching muscles.

It was cooler when they finally stepped into a clearing. The sun’s rays were unobstructed, but the shadows were lengthening in the late afternoon.

For a moment Rico forgot; lifted his head and looked about himself. Immediately a hand struck him on the back of the neck, then pushed his head down again. He winced and obeyed; but in that brief moment, he had seen an outer ring of grass huts with people – men mostly – gliding between them. He had also gotten a glimpse of a rough-hewn stone grotto to which they were heading. His peripheral vision informed him that they were passing through a garden into the stone-walled courtyard. On his left, on the flagstone floor, stood a fire-pit; on his right, a fountain ringed with brilliantly-flowered plants. Fragrant incense wafted from censers placed about the enclosure.

Abruptly he was pushed to his knees, arms pulled behind his back, and a thin cord wrapped about his wrists. His heart beat faster; he considered a last-ditch escape attempt – but his captors’ still-brandished machete blades convinced him otherwise.

The one who had led the band strode on between the brazier and the fountain, and disappeared through the curtained doorway at the far end of the courtyard. The others took places around the prisoner, standing at ease, feet slightly spread and arms folded across thick chests.

They waited.

All around them, birds twittered and insects droned. Rico felt his legs begin to cramp; the flagstones hurt his knees. The cord cut into his wrists; his head throbbed, back and neck muscles tight from the sharp blow he’d received. He began to shiver form nervousness, and nausea churned in his belly. Somewhere a drum pounded, its rhythm increasing in intensity, and his heart throbbed in cadence, harder and faster, until it seemed to fill his chest, and his lungs dragged panting gasps through his open mouth… _god… what are they planning to do to me?_

Finally the man reappeared, stepping to the side of the curtained doorway, then another man emerged after him. One of the guards behind Rico jerked his head up by the hair. It seemed that permission had finally been given to look up.

Rico thought he was looking at a statue come to life. The man standing before him must have been carved from ebony wood, not born in the flesh. A white skirt encircled slender hips and thighs. An intricate pattern of white tattoos decorated the high-cheekboned face, as well as muscular shoulders and chest; and long black hair woven into tiny braids fell down the lean back.

The man spoke to Rico in English. “You are trespassing on Muerte Blanca. You are not welcome.”

Rico licked him lips and swallowed. He guessed he shouldn’t answer until permission was given to speak.

“What is your name?” The man’s voice was deep, rich, and resonant with an accent that wasn’t noticeably Bahamanian or Haitian, or anything Rico had heard on his trip so far.

“I am… my name is Ricardo Tubbs.”

“Ricardo Tubbs.” A whisper echoed him.

The man stepped closer, almost seeming to glide rather than walk. Cupping Rico’s chin in one hand, he lifted the prisoner’s head. Rico found himself looking into the darkest eyes he had ever seen – dark and full of depth. It was as if he were staring through miles of black space, trying to fathom the distance. He felt his mind start to drift into a dreamy haze. He wanted to look away from that compelling gaze, but found that he couldn't.

Then his head was released, and the hands passed over his face, down his neck, across his shoulders. The touch was gentle, intimate… but firm; there was nothing weak or effeminate in the man’s actions, and Rico surmised that his neck could as easily be snapped with one sharp jerk.

Anxiousness throbbed in his heart, anxiousness and not a little fear, and… something more? Perhaps it was the man’s aroma: a blend of clean yet musky masculine scent combined with a fragrance that Rico guessed could not be obtained off the counter at the local drugstore. Or perhaps it was the fingers unbuttoning his shirt, or the nearness of the man’s pelvic area near his face.

He shook his head, trying to clear it. He felt strange, dizzy… the cloying incense smoke… maybe the smoke was drugged… maybe that would explain the glazed look in his captors’ eyes.

He found himself gazing at the man’s bare torso gleaming as if oiled; he stared fascinated at the tiny gold bells piercing twin nipples which tinkled as the man breathed. He felt strong hands slide down over his own chest, warm and firm; and of its own accord, incipient excitement stirred in his belly and loins… _what the hell?!_ his mind snapped at him… _I can’t get aroused… not like this… not by a man, for godsake…!_

Drugs… it had to be drugs… had to be the incense…

Finally the man finished his intimate exploration, and stepped back a pace. “You have come here unbidden. From where did you come?”

Another lick of lips. “I’m an American… please just let me go back…”

“You will not see America again.”

At that, Rico stiffened, and started up. “What?! You can’t keep me a prisoner here. I haven’t done anything wrong. You can’t keep me!”

“Hahh!” From behind, someone grabbed his shoulder and roughly pushed him back onto his knees.

The man in front merely shook his head slightly. “You shall not live among us. Your resting place will be on the far side of the island.”

Rico’s jaw dropped, then he stammered, “Hey, wait, you can’t… I mean, you can’t kill me just because I stumbled across your island…!”

“It is our way, our law. We will not be disturbed by outsiders.”

“But my boat broke down! It was an accident! I wouldn’t have caused you any trouble. Please let me go! I promise I’ll never tell anyone about you… I’ll never say a word about this place…! Please!”

But the man only continued to shake his head.

“Hey, I have friends! People will miss me – If I don’t get back home, they’ll come looking for me…”

“They will find your boat adrift a far distance from here. They will think you drowned.”

Again Rico tried to rise, again he was slammed back to his knees. “Look, I’m a cop… a policeman… a detective with the Metro-Dade Police Department in Miami. My boss is Lieutenant Martin Castillo… He’ll come here, and bring a lot of police with him… if you don’t want outsiders disturbing you, then let me go!... please!” Abruptly his voice broke off as he suddenly realized what he was doing – identifying himself as a cop, in front of obvious drug users… now they would kill him for sure…

In futility his head dropped, and he knelt there in the smothering silence. Sweat trickled and itched between his shoulder-blades. He wondered how they would do it… would it be quick, or did these guys believe in ritual torture or something? He considered he just might be sick at his stomach. What a damn stupid reason to die…

“Martín Castillo,” the man mused, as though it meant something to him. Perhaps it did. If anyone knew of a place and a people as bizarre as this, it would be the lieutenant.

Now the man had a leaf in his hand, and was holding it over the brazier as if he were about to crumple it into the embers. Then he seemed to reach a decision, and stepping over to the fountain, dropped the leaf into the water.

Black eyes captured Rico’s guards. “La presencia de este hombre nos offende. Desnúdelo y aprisiónenlo.” And then he walked away, back through the curtained doorway, not bothering to spare their prisoner another glance, even as his men tore Rico’s clothes off and Rico yelled in protest.

* * * * *

_to be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While vacationing in the Bahamas, Rico is taken prisoner by a strange cult of people. Sonny and Castillo, coming to retrieve him, finally reach the island…
> 
> …Sonny caught a sidelong glance at one of their guards. How did these people sustain themselves? he wondered. What kind of lives did they lead when they weren’t inhaling drugs and performing god-knows-what erotic perverted rituals and capturing innocent prisoners?... And dammit, where was Rico? “Marty,” he started to whisper, “…where the hell…?” “Quiétate!” the lieutenant hissed, black eyes flashing fire at him. “Silencio, esclavo!”…

The late afternoon sun sparkled on the water as the speedboat skimmed through it, sending up a fine white spray. At the wheel, Sonny Crockett found it difficult to concentrate, as his eyes kept drifting to the man standing beside him. It wasn’t just seeing Lieutenant Castillo dressed in all-white windbreaker, blouse and slacks, the antithesis of the dark conservative suits he always wore – it was the strangeness of this whole damn situation.

Crockett frowned as he tried to understand the decision of his supervisor. He could detect nothing from the stern closed expression on the lieutenant’s face; dark sunglasses hid whatever blue eyes might have revealed.

Right now Crockett felt more than a little uncomfortable. He too was dressed in all-white as well, T-shirt and loose slacks – evidently something like “when in Rome…”

Finally he spoke over the roar of the speedboat’s engine. “Marty, don’t you think we should have – ?”

“No.”   The dark-haired man shifted his head and directed a level gaze at Crockett, held it on the blond for a long moment, then turned back to watch the ocean rushing past.

They continued on in silence, and presently Crockett could see a smudge on the horizon.

“Muerte Blanca?”

Castillo’s nod was almost imperceptible. The smudge grew until it finally took shape as an island, then Crockett attempted conversation again.

“Dammit, Marty,” he snapped, not giving the lieutenant a chance to interrupt, “this is the stupidest, damnedest… Hell, why aren’t just going in with a SWAT team – we could blow the place apart if they gave us any trouble!”

Even over the engine’s roar, the chastisement in Castillo’s voice was clearly audible. “I would expect an irrational outburst like that from Detective Switek or Zito – not from you, Crockett.”

Crockett’s lips tightened, irritated more than he would like to admit by the sting of Castillo’s words.

“We have no jurisdiction on the island,” the lieutenant pronounced calmly.

“Jurisdiction, hell!” Crockett retorted, refusing to back down. “They kidnapped a United States citizen – dammit, they’ve got Rico! My partner, _your_ friend… A bunch of weird freaked-out religious druggies! We could take them out easy.”

“You would do everything by force.”

Crockett wasn’t sure if that was a statement or a question. He opened his mouth to say something, then shut it.

Castillo continued, eyes watching the approaching bit of land, voice level and steady, which belied the urgency of his words: “We are guests of the high priest, and as such, we will conduct ourselves with complete respect for their laws, just as they are bound by the laws of others whenever they leave the island. To not act courteously could mean our imprisonment – or execution – along­side Rico. And nobody would be allowed to come to our assistance.”   He turned to look directly at Crockett to emphasize his statement, then reverted his attention to their destination, and added, “The high priest considers me his equal. You and Rico are thought to be my servants. You will accept the rôle. That means you will not speak or act without my permission, and you will do nothing out of turn, no matter what you might witness.”

Crockett stared at his supervisor’s profile, even as he felt the tension building in his chest.

Castillo’s gaze behind the dark glasses remained steady. “This is not a game. This is Rico’s life – this is my life, and yours. This is a time when you will need to act as more of a man than ever before – when you will be treated as less than a man. Do you understand?”

Crockett moistened his lips and swallowed, trying to find a voice to answer with. “Yes.”

“The high priest is merely an acquaintance. We are not friends. Do not presume any allow­ance for careless behavior. He is letting us enter their privacy only because several years ago, I once did a favor for him and his people. That is all.”

They were coming alongside the island now, and Castillo directed Crockett to anchor the boat off a small stretch of sandy beach.

“So why did you decide to even bring me along?” Crockett questioned, as he steered the boat around the shore to the landing point. “You can take care of yourself, and you don’t seem to think my behavior can be guaranteed.”

“I may need help caring for Rico.”

Crockett stiffened at the implication. “Caring for Rico? Why – do you think they might have hurt him?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“Wait a minute!” Ignoring his steering momentarily, Crockett gripped the sleeve of Castillo’s windbreaker. “I don’t understand you! It’s bad enough, you wanting to just waltz in here without proper back-up. But when you knew he could be hurt…”

Castillo only cautioned calmly, “Careful of those rocks ahead.”

“Shit!” Jerking the wheel, Crockett swerved the craft sharply, then began to ease it alongside the beach. As they rounded the rocky outcropping, another boat came into view, bobbing lazily at its anchorage. On the side was painted: “Hernandez Boat Rental, West Palm Beach, FL”

“Hey!” Crockett called. “Could that be Rico’s boat?”

“Probably.”

Irritation simmered within, and Crockett hissed, “I don’t know how you can stay so goddamn calm!”

“I prefer to conserve my energies to assist Tubbs. You might do the same.”

The other man forced himself to count to ten, instead of exploding at the lieutenant’s madden­ing composure. Skillfully he manipulated the wheel and throttle until the boat slipped smoothly into place beside Rico’s craft. “So, tell me. What did you do for them that they’re willing to be so nice to you now?” he asked curiously.

Castillo’s gaze scanned the shoreline and encroaching jungle. “A few years ago, when I was with the DEA, three men from the island attempted to import their ritual drugs through Puerto Rico. I could have arrested them for smuggling; instead I escorted them back here and spoke with the high priest, warning him never to allow such an occurrence to happen again. And as far as I know, it never has.”

“What if they expect us to participate in some weird ritual to get Rico back?” Crockett in­quired, as he shut the engine down. “You said to ignore anything I might witness. But what if they demand that we indulge in some of their magic mushrooms or whatever? What are we supposed to do then?”

For a moment Castillo hesitated, then replied, “I will make my decision when or if the situa­tion occurs. Then whatever I tell you to do, I expect you to obey.” The weight of his gaze, shifting to Crockett, silently emphasized his command.

Sonny could feel tension cold and heavy in the pit of his stomach, but he said nothing while he anchored the boat and they waded ashore. Rico’s craft drew his eye longingly, and momentarily he considered boarding it to seek any clue about its missing occupant, but before he could, Castillo’s pronouncement interrupted him.

“They’re here.”

Jerking around, Crockett stared at the six men who seemed to have had materialized out of nothingness. At least they were just men, and not zombies, as his overactive imagination had wanted to suggest. But disconcertment niggled in his brain from the wicked knives in their hands, and the strange white markings tattooing their faces and shoulders, and particularly the glassy stares of their eyes.

One stepped forward. Ignoring Crockett’s presence, he looked at the darker man and announced, “Teniente Castillo.”

Castillo nodded slightly. “Sí.”

“Venga con nosotros.”

Again Castillo inclined his head in acknowledgement, and began to follow the man across the beach toward the jungle. Obligingly Crockett fell into step behind the lieutenant, and the other men formed ranks around them.

It was late afternoon. The thick foliage had captured the day’s heat, and Crockett felt like he was in a steam bath. Sweat leaked down spinal channel, trickled down his chest. With a frustrated sigh, he wiped the back of a wet hand across his wet face.

When they finally stepped into a clearing and what appeared to be the edge of a village, Crockett made a visual sweep of the area. Realizing that he was under Castillo’s penetrating gaze, he frowned puzzled at his supervisor, then understood and dropped his head, assuming what he hoped conveyed a humble stance behind the lieutenant. But in his brief surveillance, he had caught a glimpse of huts to either side, and a sort of garden and courtyard ahead.

They walked along a path through the garden area. Abstract designs of statuary and carvings stared back at them from the side of the trail. Squawking of jungle birds interrupted the humans’ silence, and off in the distance animals chattered and yowled. One of the designs on the stone carv­ings looked familiar, and Crockett realized that he was seeing the same design in the raised scars tattooed on the shoulder-blade of the man ahead of him.

A high wall surrounded the courtyard. They entered the area, passing between two stone monoliths which guarded it, onto a flagstone floor. Fire niches flickered around the walls, and the sweet-sharp scent of incense drifted from censers on the floor. About half-way across the yard, the man in front motioned for them to stay, then continued on between a large fire-pit and a splashing fountain, and disappeared through a curtained doorway into an interior room. The five remaining men formed a half-circle around their charges.

Castillo removed his sunglasses, then glancing to the side in Crockett’s direction, whispered, “Kneel.”

Obligingly Crockett settled to his knees, but it wasn’t long before they began to ache in pro­test, and he wished for a more comfortable position. Standing beside him, Castillo’s straight back gave no indication of heat or fatigue or discomfort; Sonny felt limp and wet and dirty.

And the gurgling fountain made him realize how thirsty he was. His thirst and discomfort grew, and still their escort did not reappear. Stiffly he shifted position on his knees. He would rather be creeping through the jungle at Castillo’s side, searching for Rico, than kneeling here uselessly, waiting. At least then he would feel he was doing something active.

He caught a sidelong glance at one of their guards. How did these people sustain themselves? he wondered. What kind of lives did they lead when they weren’t inhaling drugs and performing god-knows-what erotic perverted rituals and capturing innocent prisoners?

And dammit, where was Rico?

“Marty,” he started to whisper, “where the hell…”

“Quiétate!” the lieutenant hissed, black eyes flashing fire at him. “Silencio, esclavo!”

Involuntarily Crockett winced, realizing that Martin’s words were meant primarily for the ears of their guards, but irrationally feeling slightly stung nevertheless. He wiped sweaty palms on white cotton-clad thighs. Why was this taking so damned long? Perversely he wondered if it was some kind of test to trap them.

Rico was nearby – he was sure of it. Maybe in one of those huts beyond the garden. So why the hell couldn’t they just get him and leave? why all this mystery and ceremony?

Then the man they had followed stepped into view again, and looked at Castillo. “Venga,” he pronounced.

Obligingly the lieutenant walked forward. Crockett pushed stiffly to his feet and followed, hobbling the first few steps from the pain in his cramped knees. Whether invited or not, he wasn’t going to remain behind. He didn’t dare leave Martin unescorted, or allow their bizarre hosts to separate them. Castillo and the escort neither prevented nor acknowledged him. Whatever. He’d play along – at least for the time being.

As they passed through the curtain, Crockett felt as if they had stepped into another world. They emerged into a chamber which seemed more a natural grotto than a man-made room. Torches flared in random spots around the rough rock-hewn walls, and smoky incense drifted throughout. In the shadows hovered shapes which, as Crockett’s eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness, became statuary and pottery. Unlike the abstract designs of the outside carvings, these wore the grotesque mask-like faces of jungle gods or demons. Small crouching figures on the sculptures turned into small mon­keys, but until one blinked, he wasn’t sure if they were real or not.

Across the room, through a veil of beaded strings, lay another chamber, lit dimly by smoky firelight.

“The holy of holies,” Crockett muttered irreverently.

Castillo only shot him a warning look, then hissed once more, “Kneel.”

 _Here we go again_ , Crockett thought to himself, dropping to his knees once more time, and knew that the lieutenant could read his mind as the intense gaze lingered on him.

Again they waited. Crockett began to feel light-headed. Was he swaying, or was it the room? Another dribble of sweat rolled down his back.

Suddenly he felt something sliding against his left thigh, and he looked down to see a fat green snake oozing its way along his leg.

“ _Gaa!_ ” he cried out, scrambling back and landing clumsily on his rear. The reptile ignored his outburst, continuing to slither on its way, all twenty feet of it.

“Calm down!” Castillo hissed, and glared at Crockett again, and Crockett sank to his knees under the withering stare and bowed his head. But he couldn't hide the adrenalin shakes or the heav­ing breaths, as his heart thudded desperately in the prison of his rib-cage. Then glancing up, he saw another serpent draped over a high ledge; and involuntarily he hunkered down, imagining the thing dropping down on him. Beside him, Castillo didn’t seem the least perturbed, despite the fact that the snakes were big enough to consider them as lunch. God, he’d be glad when they got out of here and back to Miami. Unfortunately, right now Miami seemed a very long ways away.

Then finally from within the inner chamber, a dark hand parted the beaded strands, and a man emerged – a man with regal bearing and haughty face.

Crockett realized that he had been expecting an old wizened medicine man with a feather headdress and a bone through the nose, or something such – and he stared in surprise.

* * * * *

_to be continued…_


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To gain Rico’s release, the lieutenant must take part in a – rather intimate – ritual with the priest, while Sonny looks on, torn by conflicting emotions… 
> 
> … All right, Sonny decided, almost speaking aloud to himself… no heroics now, but if Marty screams… if they make him scream…

The man standing before them was handsome, but with features imperfect enough to bestow upon him an exotic fascination. Torchlight gleamed on polished deep-brown skin, highlighted the planes of his face and the outlines of a well-developed muscular torso. The light behind him silhou­etted his legs through a thin white sarong-like skirt. An intricate raised white tattoo starting on the left shoulder spread diagonally across the right breast and encircled the ribs. A tiny gold bell pierced the left nipple, and a matching one on a fine slender chain dangled from the right ear, catching the flickering light through a mass of long rope-braided dreadlocks.

The man stepped in front of Castillo. He took no notice of Crockett.

The lieutenant watched him and did not move, body calmly alert while at ease.

“Sináwe,” the man pronounced, voice accented, rich and full.

“Sináwe,” Castillo replied.

The man stared unrelentingly into Castillo’s eyes. Levelly the lieutenant returned the gaze. The man’s eyes did not waver. Neither did Castillo’s.

Crockett felt his heart pound as he watched the two of them, having no idea what was going on, if the man was deciding some sentence upon him and Martin, if he and Marty were going to be killed outright, sacrificed to whatever gods these people worshipped, or if they would be allowed to conduct their business succinctly and leave.

When the tension had thickened almost as tangible as the smoky incense in the air, the man reached up both hands to Castillo’s face. Patiently the Latin stood there, as searching fingers moved over his features. Stroked over his forehead; then each thumb traced an eyebrow, came together to run down the bridge of his nose, then separated again, outline the cheekbones, caressed moustached lips, while fingers measured the jawline, then slipped down his throat. For a moment, the hands res­ted on his shoulders, then moved to the front of his white blouse and began to undo the buttons.

Crockett gasped at the presumption, and half-rose. But his supervisor evidently didn’t feel the need to react. The long slender fingers worked their way down the thin garment, spreading it open. Sonny let out his breath, and sank back to his knees.

On a thin gold chain encircling Castillo’s neck, a small gold medallion glittered in the fire­light against the light-brown skin of Martin’s chest. Sensually the hands slipped beneath the blouse, stroking Martin’s shoulders and sliding over his breasts – a fingertip taking note of each nipple – then down a flat belly, and smoothed over lean flanks. Without flinching or blinking, Castillo allowed the touches, the intimacies.

Sonny’s eyes focused on the glint of the medallion, and his fists clenched at his sides, as he waited for the lieutenant to protest, to interrupt this strange examination. But his superior did no­thing, enduring the priest’s hands upon him, until the man stepped back.

“Ven aquí,” the priest commanded, his Caribbean accent evoking exotic images. Silently he withdrew into the other chamber… and Castillo followed.

The lieutenant was only a few feet away, but he could no longer be seen, and Sonny felt as if his supervisor had been swallowed by the smoky darkness. After a moment’s hesitation, he scram­bled to his feet and burst through the beaded partition, nearly running into Castillo, who stood just in­side. The dark-haired man frowned, while the priest favored him with the slightest empty smile – a patronizing expression which made Crockett realize that he was perceived as a devoted, if somewhat undisciplined puppy. Again he sank to his knees at Castillo’s feet, face warm with irritation.

The room was lit by a low-slung censer which filled the air with cloying scented smoke, and made it somewhat hard to see. The first thing Sonny noticed was a table-like slab covered by a white cloth, taking up much of the space in the middle of the floor. Martin and the priest stood on either side of it – an altar? he wondered, suddenly recalling stories of ancient Aztec ritual sacrifices in which the beating heart was cut from the chest of a living victim.

… _don’t be stupid_ , he told himself, letting his gaze drift to the side. He stiffened in surprise. A man stood in the corner. Crockett blinked. Four men stood in the corners of the room. They were nude, their painted bodies gleaming with sweat, their eyes hard and glassy. A sudden unease tigh­tened Crockett’s gut. He continued to stare at the men, not bothering to avert his gaze. Like the priest’s, their nipples were adorned with little golden bells. And there was something else, something which made Crockett draw a sharp intake of breath. Each man was fully erect, with another little gold bell piercing his swollen scrotal sac.

Sonny couldn’t help but feel his own testicles ache in sympathy. And then, as a delayed reac­tion, the whole implication hit him between the eyes, and the tightness in his gut spread from his sto­mach, to radiate down through his pelvis and rise into his chest. The close smoky room threatened suffocation, and a wave of nausea left him dizzy and light-headed.

Rape. He had been so concerned with the drugs, the knives, that he had not considered ritual sex, even though the ambience was charged with homoerotic sexuality. He wondered if Martin would be expected to take the priest – or worse, the other four men in the room as well.

Sonny had already decided that he would fight if Martin were physically hurt. But what if Castillo was only sexually coerced without actually being injured? Should he do nothing, or should he try to protect his friend from the emotional distress? The lieutenant had told him not to interfere no matter what he might see – but did that include rape? He wondered how much Martin was willing to endure, how much he would let Martin endure.

Of course, there was the larger goal: he and Marty and Rico leaving this island. Alive.

What would happen to that, if he prevented this ritual form taking place?

 _All right,_ he decided, almost speaking aloud to himself, _no heroics now, but if Marty screams… if they make him scream…_

Suddenly with a swift motion, the priest pulled the white cloth off the table-like structure and let it drop to the flagstone floor.

The object revealed was not an altar or a table, but rather something like an iron cot frame with metal slats across, and manacles at the corners. A gasp escaped Crockett’s lips. It looked like some instrument of torture… god, maybe they really were going to hurt Marty – why was the lieu­tenant taking all of this so calmly?

“We must share strength, Martín Castillo.” The voice was deep, hypnotizing. “We must con­ceal nothing and reveal all.” Then the voice paused, as if allowing the listener to comprehend the full implication of the words.

“Martín. Remove your garments.”

At that, Crockett started sharply. He had guessed it would happen sooner or later, but to actu­ally have it begin caused a sudden adrenalin rush. In a way, he was surprised that the priest hadn’t ordered his men to strip the clothes from the lieutenant, maybe from him – Crockett – as well. He wasn’t sure whether or not it was more humiliating to be made to do it yourself, but Castillo seemed unperturbed. Outwardly, at least.

Castillo’s eyes remained steadily on the priest’s face, as he removed the windbreaker. Then his hands went to the waistband of the white slacks. Nimbly his fingers undid the button and pulled the zipper tab down. From the pants he tugged the tail of the already-open white blouse and elbowed out of it smoothly, letting it drop to the floor. Then bending over momentarily, he removed his shoes and socks, then straightened and stood for several silent moments, looking firmly into the eyes of the priest, as if to emphasize that he was doing this of his own free will.

Then he slid the trousers down, over hips and thighs, past knees. His movements were deli­berate and efficient, not slow, but neither too hasty as someone who, frightened and ashamed, only wanted to get it over with. Balancing on one foot, without wobbling or hanging onto the metal frame, he removed one pant leg, then the other, while Crockett watched and considered that the lieutenant was as controlled and graceful as a dancer.

Naked now, except for a pair of black bikini shorts and gold medallion, the black-haired man with intense dark eyes displayed a body which was almost perfect. Smooth golden-tanned skin covered firm muscles, taut midriff, lean legs.

The priest seemed to approve. His fingers traced over the smooth hairless chest, briefly ex­amined the medallion, then skimmed over the breastbone, over the abdomen, paused a moment at the navel, then continued to the bikinis riding low on narrow hips. The slipping his fingers just inside, he gave Martin a look of challenge, then removed his hand and stepped back.

Face impassive, Castillo hooked his thumbs into the fabric on either side, then with one fluid motion, pulled the underwear down and off.

The dark man’s presence still radiated strongly, but the absence of just a thin layer of clothing left him even more open and vulnerable to the strange people. As he had raised one knee to remove the undershorts, Crockett had seen a quivering jiggle of inner thigh and scrotal sac, which had sent an unexpected, unsettling tingle through his nerves. Partly because he knew himself what it felt like to have that portion of one’s body exposed to the open air, and also because he knew as well how it was to have that sensitive part touched. And beneath it all, the tiny tendrils of an incipient desire in the deep recesses of his mind he did not want to stop to consider. A sympathetic shiver skittered over his skin.

Sonny rose up, still on his knees, alert but not quite sure what he should do, whether his supervisor wanted some kind of protection or not, ready to offer help if it was desired.

Instead, Castillo turned his head a fraction toward the other man, a sidelong glance silently ordering him back down; and reluctantly Crockett sank back once again.

“Martín,” the priest breathed quietly, “lay yourself upon the frame.”

Sharply Castillo glanced into the other man’s eyes, then compliantly stretched out, face up, on the metal-strapped cot, arms at his sides.

For a long moment the priest stared down at Martin’s face, then deliberately his gaze traveled down the length of the proffered body. If he seemed to hesitate a fraction longer at the exposed un­aroused male organs high-lit by torchlight, Crockett couldn’t be sure.

Then tipping his head back and raising his arms in a symbolic gesture, the priest drew a deep breath of the scented smoke. For a moment, he seemed suspended in an almost trance-like state. Then his eyes flashed open, one hand made a quick movement at his waist, and the white sarong dropped to the floor.

Sonny’s tired knees had given way (funny how this situation had turned him into an old man), and he had plunked down on his prat, curling his stiff legs into a more comfortable position. But he was far from relaxed. His heart raced, and he was sweating, partly from the fire-heat, but more from anticipation and anxiousness. A rush waved over his body, and he felt heat rise from his skin felt the little chamber close in on him. Surely the incense fumes were drug-laced. He felt more than just a little out-of-kilter.

No doubt the lieutenant was experiencing the same sensations – and probably more intensely. A spangling of sweat sheened pale skin.

Crockett studied their host more closely. The man’s body was as well-kept as Martin’s, though more muscular and with a broader chest. Through the charged air, Crockett saw the priest’s erection. As with the other four men in the corners, heavy balls were adorned by a tiny gold bell piercing the loose scrotal skin.

“Martín.” The priest’s voice was low, but Sonny clearly heard every word. “You will now give to me your strength, yes?” His hand hovered just above Martin’s sex, close, but not touching.

For a tenuous delay, Castillo lay silent.

The priest was patient.

“Yes, I will give you my strength.”

Crockett sat up straighter, tensed, waiting, ready, although uncertain just what he was waiting and ready for.

Castillo closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if steeling himself, then focused on the small square ventilation hole in the roof. Crockett also looked up, watching the flickering shadow patterns from the firelight, and suddenly wishing irrationally that he and Martin had the power to rise up with the smoke and fly free of this place.

The man still did not touch, but instead took a couple of steps back, and commanded some­thing to the four men in the corners. In response, they approached the table-frame.

Crockett leapt to his feet in alarm. _Jesus,_ he thought, _they_ are _going to rape him!_ The priest looked squarely at him. The four men turned glassy stares on him. And Martin, lying there naked and open and vulnerable, impaled him with laser sight.

Sonny wanted to beg for instruction. “Marty…”

“Basta, esclavo!” A sharp hiss, blue eyes as keen as sapphires. “Contrólate!”

From six sets of eyes flashed warning and menace, and under the barrage, Crockett retreated once again to his position on the floor. But he kept his own steely gaze on the priest for a long moment, before breaking the stalemate.

Sonny hadn’t noticed before, until Castillo’s stretched position emphasized it, that the table-frame was not quite level. It humped upward slightly in the middle so that Martin’s head and feet were lower than his pelvis. The table lifted the most private part of his body to prominent view.

The sacrifice lay before the priest.

* * * * *

_to be continued…_


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To gain Rico’s release, the lieutenant must take part in a – rather intimate – ritual with the priest, while Sonny looks on, torn by conflicting emotions… 
> 
> … Head tipped back, eyes staring wide, mouth open, lungs pulling raw gulps of breath. Sweat dripped off his hot body, sheened him in the torchlight; spasming muscles rippled beneath sweat-gilded skin….

_This is getting all too real,_ Sonny thought to himself. At first he had assumed that Martin was just keeping up the pretense of their audience; now he wasn’t so sure _what_ was going on. Hell, this was getting way too real for his comfort. God, how much he wanted to just get out of here. He wondered if they’d ever see Miami again. He wondered if Rico was still alive.

As he watched, the four men continued their interrupted duties at the corners of the frame upon which Castillo lay. Taking a wrist or ankle, they applied the shackles, then faded back into the shadows, little bells tinkling lightly.

On the cot-frame, Martin was manacled, stretched out almost like a victim on the rack, Crockett considered. Arms above his head, legs spread, crotch exposed vulnerably.

The lieutenant just lay there quietly, calmly, although Crockett could hear his breathing. Sonny was not nearly as calm. The bondage not only angered and frightened him, but puzzled him as well. There had been no reason to confine Martin – attempted escape, with those drug-crazed men outside and their knives, would have been idiotic. And Castillo had already agreed to go along with whatever the priest had in mind.

_Well, maybe bondage is the only way this bastard can get it on,_ Crockett thought to himself, and felt an anxious laugh fight to get past his throat.

Now the priest stepped back to Martin. He held a small white square of cloth, about the size of a man’s handkerchief, which he flicked over Martin’s loins.

The rise and fall of Martin’s chest quickened. The priest’s ministrations had an effect on Crockett as well, as he sensed a warmth gathering between his legs.

Again the priest fingered the little medallion on Martin’s chest. Then taking each nipple with thumb and forefinger, he suddenly pinched sharply. Martin’s eyes were still focussed on the ceiling, and Crockett thought he saw them tighten slightly in reaction to the pain-pleasure sensation he knew Castillo had to be experiencing.

When the fingers released them, the nipples jutted out in hard prominence. The priest held his hands up as if he were a Catholic father about to give a blessing. The he placed them, palms down, on each shoulder, passed them lightly over the breasts and swollen tits, then down over the abdomen. Skimmed over slender flanks, down the outside of the legs, them back up to stroke the inner thighs. But didn’t touch Martin’s sex.

From a small niche in the wall, he picked up a tiny jar and poured oil into one hand. He then replaced the jar on the shelf and stood looking down at Martin, as his palms rubbed together. It looked like he intended to give Castillo a massage. But that was not what occurred.

Another pass of long fingers, and the white cloth drifted to the floor. Crockett could sense, rather than see, Martin’s body trembling, perhaps from anticipation or perhaps from the strain of being held in that stretched position. Then one hand closed around the exposed penis, and Castillo jerked slightly. Crockett could hear the sharp exhalation of air, and realized that he too had been unconsciously holding his breath. Martin was already stiffening, no doubt from the light amphetamine effect of the smoke, from adrenalin, and from the touch so intimate on the most sensitive part of his body.

The priest’s hand, encircling Martin’s engorging organ, slid slowly, almost reflexively, from the base to the tip, then down a little, pulling the foreskin back to expose the head; then the thumb traced around and over the soft tender glans. Then the hand slid back to the base, and the fingers spread out and felt of the scrotal sac.

Sonny thought he saw Castillo twitch almost imperceptibly under the blatantly presumptuous touch, but he could not be sure. The smoke and flickering firelight seemed hypnotic, and momentarily Crockett wondered if all this was really happening. Maybe it was all just some elaborate opium reverie.

He watched the priest bend down, lips parted, one hand still holding Martin’s stiffening cock. _Of course,_ Crockett commented inside his head, _this_ would _be what comes next._

Then the priest’s tongue darted out, and the tip of it flicked the urethral hole. This time, the writhing shudder which shivered through Castillo was discernible, as was the sharp intake of breath, and Crockett heard Martin’s almost-involuntary whisper, “… _oh Dios mio!_...” Crockett had more or less been experiencing each sensation vicariously, in empathy with Castillo, and now he too felt a sudden rush that was almost painful. He almost forgot himself, and nearly pressed a hand to his crotch to soothe his own disturbed member… what must it be like for Marty?...

The tongue was now describing circles around the glans. Martin’s head was tipped back, eyes squeezed shut, breath quivering. Now the lips encircled the swollen organ, sucking delicately. Martin squirmed. So did Crockett. Up and down the shaft the tongue licked, coming up one last time with a long lick to the underside; then suddenly and briefly, the priest took the whole cock in his mouth. Then he straightened, and once again only his fingers were touching the sensitive length. Castillo was now fully aroused, and so was Sonny.

_Damn,_ Crockett swore to himself, wiping sweaty palms on his thighs, _why doesn’t this character just do it?_ Occasionally he had know a lady who could orchestrate a hand-job into the ultimate experience, but jerking off was usually a simple fast beat-your-meat operation.

_… oh, of course…_ Sarcasm tinged his thoughts. _This is a sacred religious ritual._

Now a pearl of wetness bubbled from the rosy tip of the captive penis and ran down the shaft, just like the shiny trail of pre-sem dribbling down the hard cock of the priest. Martin’s tongue flicked out to lick his lips, gloss over his teeth; lungs drew in a deep breath, then released it. For a moment, the priest simply held the organ firmly. Crockett pondered the torment of being taken close and then teased by delay. It looked like the priest was deliberately making it difficult for Castillo. Obviously, for the ritual to be completed, Martin would be expected to climax. _Maybe,_ Crockett surmised, _if Marty doesn’t come, we won’t be allowed to leave…_

The four men in the corners did not participate in any way now; they only watched, presumably as witnesses and guarantors that the ceremony was not desecrated – and definitely not by Castillo or Crockett.

Martin’s organ was beginning to soften now from the lack of stimulation. Tensing his arms and legs, he pulled at his shackles; strained to raise his hips, to thrust his genitals into the priest’s hand. Stomach and thigh muscles quivered as he clenched them and tried to squeeze his thighs together. Crockett guessed that he was attempting to create some kind of friction, some sort of resistance, something to rub or thrust against, to sustain his erection.

Not until the organ swelled again, did the priest’s hand begin to move once more.

Now Crockett hoped that the effort Martin was making would be rewarded. As he squatted on the flagstone floor beside the table, he kept an eye on the priest’s hand, willing it not to stop until Martin’s climax was triggered. Every few seconds, the priest changed tempo and technique, and each time, Crockett tensed, afraid that he was stopping again.

Sonny could hardly believe that the lieutenant was actually allowing the grotesquery to take place, this blatant invasion of his privacy. Even to rescue one of his people, this went above and beyond. And Sonny even wondered about himself: as much as he cared for Rico, could he have allowed himself to be subjected to this bizarre perversion?   But either Castillo had no such hesitations, no such questions, or he had already definitively answered them to his own satisfaction.

Now Martin was trying to raise and spread his knees, but the shackles prevented this. Still, there was enough slack to let him part his thighs just a few inches, arch his back and raised his pelvis, so that he could work himself more effectively against the man’s hand. Sweat rolled off his body while he panted with the exertion.

Fingernails traced up and down the underside of Martin’s cock, and vicariously Sonny experienced icy little spider tingles racing right through his crotch and up his spine.

Then the vigorous pumping and testicle-massage; and Martin tossed his head, gasping for breath, while pre-cum leaked and dribbled down his masturbated shaft.

Next, the priest’s free hand pushed between Castillo’s thighs and began to probe and prod into his gluteal cleavage. A little push, and his anus gave way; a short little “ _oh!_ ” broke from his lips, eyes blinked wide, hips lurched, and the finger slid into his ass. Another taut grunt, then abruptly his testicles tightened, and he shot one jolt of fluid into the man’s hand cupped over his glans.

The hand beneath his buttocks pushed further, the invasive finger thrust deeper inside, found his prostate and stimulated it mercilessly; Martin groaned, head rolling side to side on the table, pelvis bucking short little jerks, as his balls desperately attempted to expel the rest of their precious load.

Convulsions quivered his muscles, and animal noises grunted deep in his throat. Head tipped back, eyes staring wide, mouth open, lungs pulling raw gulps of breath. Sweat dripped off his hot body, sheened him in the torchlight; spasming muscles rippled beneath sweat-gilded skin. Chest and flanks heaved with exertion as the hands continued their relentless pumping and prodding – his own writhing and squirming making him fuck himself on the pistoning finger up his ass, sphincter clenching the probing digit spastically – then suddenly his whole body lurched, a cry burst from his throat, and a powerful ejaculation erupted, locking his muscles tightly, as warm cream shot from his upthrust organ, splattering his belly and the priest’s hand. Another, then another, each burst harder than the last.

Until finally the eruption died away, and clonus released, as he sagged back on the table, muscles continuing to twitch and jerk for a little while. And then even that subsided, and he just lay there, drained, trembling, panting.

Sonny hadn’t realized that he had stood up during Martin’s heaving climax, until his knees gave way, and he found himself back on the floor. And he hadn’t noticed that he had ejaculated as well during the excitement, until he became aware of the warm sticky wetness smearing the front of his undershorts. For those few intense moments, he hadn’t known anything except Martin’s wild orgasm – the vigorous pounding hands, the surging loins beneath. Everything else had been forgotten in the hypnotic haze – the smoky drugged air, the dank humid grotto, the four naked aroused musclemen in the corners… even Rico and his predicament, wherever he was.

* * * * *

_to be continued…_


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally Castillo fulfills his part of the ritual, while Crockett suffers from his own helplessness.
> 
> …It struck Sonny abruptly then, that the lieutenant was probably far less accepting of this coerced exhibition and crude blatant performance than he appeared to be on the cool surface. Martin Castillo was a man who had seen and experienced many things that most men might only read about. But not this…

Now Crockett wiped an arm across his sweaty face and tried to breathe easier. Slimy and warm his damp undershorts clung to his belly… god, he wished he hadn’t done that. He felt slightly stupid – and more than a little embarrassed – that he hadn't been able to control better than that. Nei­ther the priest nor the guards had lost their loads over the spectacle which Martin had been forced to provide.

And then an even hotter shame enveloped him as he realized that his minor dismay was no­where near what Castillo had to be experiencing just then, lying there, locked spread-eagle on that table, evidence of his own loss of control spattered whitely across his panting belly.

Standing over their sacrificial victim now, the priest displayed the handful of captured semen, showed it to Martin’s weary eyes; then as Castillo and Crockett both watched, carefully lapped the viscid prize from his hand and swallowed it.

“I have taken your strength, Martín,” he announced solemnly; and then, as he had done be­fore, traced his fingers – now semen-smeared – over Martin’s face, leaving a sticky trail across brows, the bridge of a narrow nose, angular cheekbones, lower jaw, lips.

Martin just lay there limp and wet, gasping for breath, smelling the musky scent of his own sexual emission smeared on his face, hardly caring what was done to him anymore; and Crockett could see that his friend’s strength had indeed been sapped.

“You do well, Martín. You show more strength than many.”

Crockett hadn’t expected to hear a compliment out of the guy. Although for all Martin had just been through, he deserved more than just a few appreciative words.

The priest gave a short command, and the four men stepped forward again. Crockett’s appre­hension level rose considerably – _god they’re really going to rape him now… this isn’t a sacred ritual, it’s a goddamn gang-bang, and Marty can’t do a thing to defend himself…_ But he relaxed slightly when, instead of roughly mounting and fucking him, two of the men unshackled Martin’s ankles.

Gratefully Castillo drew up one knee, then that leg, then straightened it and drew up the other. Then bending both knees, he pulled his legs up and apart, and rested his feet flat on the end of the table. Stiffly he started to shift his weight, to lift his hips and reposition himself, to work out the fatigued and kinking muscles. But perhaps he suddenly became aware of his softening cock and balls bobbing between his thighs with each movement, because he seemed to change his mind, unbent his knees, and lay still, legs close together, while his eyes flicked wary glances over the five naked erect men around him.

It struck Crockett abruptly then, that the lieutenant was probably far less accepting of this coerced exhibition and crude blatant performance than he appeared to be on the cool surface. Martin Castillo was a man who had seen and experienced many things that most men might only read about. But not this.

Then the two other men at the head of the table stepped forward, and Crockett tensed once more. But they only unfastened the manacles binding Martin’s wrists. Sonny slumped back, tired of dangling between apprehension one moment and a small measure of relief the next. God, when would all of this be over, and they could be in their boats again, speeding back to the welcoming shoreline of Florida, USA, leaving this crazy place far behind?

The priest spoke, as Castillo rubbed his wrists. “Stand, Martín.”

Crockett doubted that his friend had the energy to raise his head, let alone gain his feet. But grasping the edge of the table for solid purchase, Castillo pulled himself to a sitting position, swung his legs over the side, then lowered his feet to the floor.

Standing before the dark Latin man, the priest was still fully aroused, and Crockett marveled at the self-discipline which kept him poised on the brink, weeping a thin mucus string of pre-sem, yet held him from going over the edge. The deep fiery passion in depthless eyes belied the quiet voice which challenged Castillo: “Take your power back, Martín… if you can.”

Then he laid both hands on Castillo’s shoulders and pressed gently but firmly, and acquies­cently Martin sank to his knees. Fingers tangling into black hair pulled Martin’s face to the slick hard purple glans. Martin obliged by opening his mouth, and the fleshy shaft entered presump­tuously.

Sonny licked dry lips and tried to swallow. He saw the sweat gleaming on Castillo’s nude body, and he considered how the leaking pre-sem must taste to the tongue which was now caressing the shiny head. Easily but forcibly, the full and straining erection rubbed back and forth in its warm wet haven. Martin started to reach for the man’s testicles, but his hand was pushed away. Appa­rently he was expected to bring off the priest using only lips and tongue.

And he did.

Crockett had an unobstructed side-view of both his supervisor kneeling naked and submissive, and the unclothed black man whose quivering body trembled on the explosive edge of release. Vio­lently the pistoning hips bucked and thrust, pounding their precious possession into the sucking mouth; while clenched fingers negligently twisted fistfuls of hair.

Pressure seethed and roiled. “Ahh, Martín!” the man hissed, head tossed back, eyes staring wildly, blankly. Then powerfully, vehemently, orgasm ripped through him with the force of a tidal wave.

Sonny could see Martin’s throat muscles work tensely, and he knew that the lieutenant was swallowing the salty viscid fluid which the eruptive climax was squirting into his mouth. Like an animal, the priest grunted and moaned, pressing Castillo’s head tightly to himself, rubbing his pubic hair against Castillo’s face, as his body spasmed to completion.

Then pulling the captive head back by the hair, the priest looked into Martin’s eyes, watched him swallow convulsively and gasp for breath.

The priest’s own gaze was dulled now with fatigue and satisfaction. He motioned Castillo to rise. When Martin was looking at him eye-to-eye again, he whispered, “We have shared each other’s strength, Martín. We are one now,” then offered magnanimously, “You are free to take your servant. We shall release him to you.”

“Thank you,” Castillo’s quiet voice acknowledged in polite understatement.

It was over.

Sonny felt as if all his own strength had been drained away, and he could hardly move. Cas­tillo was calmly pulling on his trousers as if nothing had happened since he’d taken them off, while Crockett, who had only watched and not endured, felt as wrung out as a limp dishrag.

Yet Martin was not as steady as he had first appeared. Looking closer, Crockett detected a tiny nervous tic of one eyelid, and noticed how the lieutenant’s hands trembled as he buttoned his shirt.

Stiffly Crockett made the effort to stand up. He felt soaked to the skin, and also noticed to his chagrin, that his cock was demanding attention again.

But not nearly as adamantly as those of the four guards who maintained their positions in the corners. They stood there motionless, swollen flesh still achingly unassuaged, and briefly Crockett wondered when they would be allowed to do something about it. Just so it was after he and Marty and Rico got off this rock safely and were long gone – that was all he cared about right now.

Then the priest led the two of them back out through the outer chamber to the courtyard once more, where their original escort of six men still waited.

Crockett had to squint against the brightness of early evening daylight. The outside air was refreshingly cool, after the close smoky interior, and he inhaled gratefully, feeling slightly better already.

But Martin swayed a little, and Sonny reached out to steady him. “Are you all right?”

Silently Castillo nodded, and put a finger to his lips.

The priest led the entourage down a trail into the cluster of little huts which Crockett had noticed earlier. They rounded a corner.

And saw Rico.

* * * * *

_to be continued…_


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally Sonny and the lieutenant are free to go and take Rico with them.
> 
> …When they finally stepped out of the rain-forest onto the beach, and saw the two boats bobbing gently at anchor, Sonny suddenly felt as if the whole thing had been no more than a bad dream. But Rico’s trembling weight leaning on his arm was real, and the rigid tension of Castillo’s back and shoulders was more than obvious…

He was huddled naked and miserable in a small wooden cage, barely four feet square, which stood beside one of the huts.

“Rico!” Breaking away from the group, before Martin could stop him, Crockett raced over to the other man and hunkered down beside him.

“Crockett!” Castillo ordered.

But Sonny ignored the command, remaining where he was, and reached through the bars to stroke Rico’s hot forehead. “Rico,” he murmured. “C’mon, babe.”

Weakly the black man turned his head, and tried to focus his eyes. “Sonny?” he queried in a tremulous voice through cracked dry lips.

“Yeah, man, I’m here.”

“Help me, Sonny.” Voice a tiny whimper. “Sonny, help me. Please…”

“You’re gonna be all right now, babe.” Gently a hand caressed crisp black curls. “It’s all right. We’re gonna get you out of here right now. Just hang in there.” An angry glance around in the direction of their escort. “C’mon, open the cage! Let him out!”

“Contrólate!” Black eyes snapped a warning.

But the priest, watching them indulgently, chose to ignore Sonny’s blatant breach. “Suelte al prisionero,” he ordered, and one of the men stepped up and unlatched the cell door.

Carefully Sonny and Martin eased Rico out, settled him onto Sonny’s lap. Tubbs grunted and cried out in pain, as muscles cramped for several days in that small confining box protested their new freedom. Crockett held him, tried to comfort with simple words. “C’mon, pal… c’mon…”

“Sonny…”

Cheek rested against crinkly hair. “Yeah, I know…”

While Crockett tried to soothe, Castillo squatted down to check Tubbs’ physical state, spot any immediately serious injuries. Briefly he lifted each eyelid to examine Rico’s eyes, touched his face, skimmed practiced fingers of shoulders, torso; but luckily could find nothing wrong.

Grasping Crockett’s shirt with a trembling hand, the black man mumbled, “Water… please…”

“He needs water!” Crockett demanded, impatience finally winning over the mock submis­siveness. “And where the hell are his clothes?”

“Silence! Not another word!”

Crockett stared, startled at the abrupt outburst right in front of his face, more vehement than all before, caught between obeying his supervisor, or dropping this grotesque pretense once and for all, despite the consequences. But black sparking laser glare demanded obedience; offered no quarter to any further insubordination.

Then instantly regaining his composure, the Hispanic man returned his attention to their host. “I apologize for my servant’s thoughtless behavior. He is ignorant of your conventions.”

“Your servants are poorly trained,” the priest chided in a patronizing tone. “This one,” – a tilt of chin in Crockett’s direction – “If he were mine, I would have him whipped severely.”

Martin’s head bowed slightly despite the angry retort in Crockett’s eyes. “He will be repri­manded,” he promised, and Crockett knew he meant it – they were not just empty words for the priest’s ears. “And may I request a drink of water for my other servant?”

With a wave of his hand, the priest ordered one of his own men, “Traime agua,” then in­formed Castillo in answer to Crockett’s brusque question, “His clothes and belongings were returned to his boat.” When his own servant returned with a wooden cup, he handed it to Martin, who let Sonny assist Rico to drink. For a moment the priest watched them, then informed Castillo, “My obli­gation to you is now fulfilled. You may depart now, and do not return.”

Another gracious nod of the dark head. “We thank you for your tolerance,” – and Crockett had to stifle one more surge of resentment toward the man who had disdainfully put them through all of this, priest or no. The Hispanic’s half-lidded gaze shifted to Crockett. “Put your shirt around Tubbs, and help him to walk.”

Quickly Sonny obeyed, stripping off his sweaty white shirt and tying it about the other man’s naked loins, then propped his partner up while Rico awkwardly regained his footing. Already Cas­tillo was walking ahead with the priest – even in these final moments the game had to be played – so Crockett did his best to support Rico and assist him to follow along behind.

When they finally stepped out of the rain-forest onto the beach, and saw the two boats bob­bing gently at anchor, Crockett suddenly felt as if the whole thing had been no more than a bad dream. But Rico’s trembling weight leaning on his arm was real, and the rigid tension of Castillo’s back and shoulders was more than obvious; and Sonny sensed the last threads of his own control begin to fray.

Martin turned his head toward the jungle. Crockett looked too, and saw that they were finally alone, their escort faded away like wraiths. Now the pretense could be dropped, and Castillo took his place on the other side of Rico to help get him into the boat.

While Crockett dressed his friend, Martin arranged the seat cushions for Rico to recline on.

“You bring Tubbs on this boat,” the lieutenant directed. “I’ll drive the other one in.”

“I dunno, Marty,” Crockett objected mildly. “Maybe we ought to just tie it up and tow it with us. I mean, maybe we should stay together… whadd’ya think?” But then he saw the resolute stare of Castillo’s eyes, and realized that the lieutenant wanted to be alone – _needed_ to be alone for awhile.

As he crossed to the other boat, Martin instructed, “Don’t be careless, but get under way as quickly as you can.”

Crockett moved swiftly, but even so, Castillo had backed his craft around, turned, and was speeding off before Sonny even had the anchor up. As he keyed the ignition, the engine sputtered a few times, stubbornly threatening not to fire, but then finally caught, and Crockett hurried to follow in the other speedboat’s wake.

“Sonny,” Rico murmured drowsily, lying on the bench close behind him. “I’m sorry… didn’t mean to cause you trouble…”

“No trouble, pal. It’s all right. You’re safe, that’s all that matters,” Sonny reassured, know­ing the remorse that Tubbs would feel if he ever learned the truth. But it wasn’t something he ever needed to know, and anyway he was exhausted right now and could be put off.

From time to time, Sonny looked over his shoulder, watching the island diminish into no­thingness over the horizon. But mostly he kept his eyes on the boat ahead of them and the dark man piloting it.

As far as he could tell, Martin Castillo never looked back.

* * * * * **FINIS** * * * * *


End file.
